


It Whispers Softly

by endless_skies



Category: Crimson Peak (2015), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Romance, house of horrors, time loop weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endless_skies/pseuds/endless_skies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Delia is commissioned to restore Allerdale Hall to its former glory, she finds herself spending more and more time within its walls. Her nights within the house are filled with the past and it is there she meets Sir Thomas Sharpe for the first time. As the house aligns its pawns, Delia finds herself drawn further and further into its trap--and the arms of Thomas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: Within These Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The only thing I claim to "own" is my MC and even at that, she's her own person and I can only start her on her journey; where that journey ends is something you and I will likely discover together. (Sometimes I start a fic off thinking it'll go one way and it veers off dramatically in another direction.) Also, this is an active WIP so yes, you can expect updates.
> 
> P.S. Will deviate from the movie in some ways because it's the only way to make this plot work the way I want it to.

It is a slow magic that overtakes the house at night, as if it's waking from a long slumber. Suddenly the torn, faded bits of wallpaper are returned to their former splendor before my eyes and paintings I have only seen in storage are once more on the walls. It's breathtaking and I can't help but wonder if it will look like this again when the restoration is completed. 

Within these walls there is still life. Sometimes I see it during the day, what its former owners must've wanted. It's there, hidden away under the grime. "Someone must've cared a great deal for you once," I tell the house as I run my hand along the corridor wall. "For you to have survived for so long." It hardens my resolve as well. I will see this restor-I mean, renovation through until the end.


	2. Before Our Journey's Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The necessary preamble before I start working towards the grit of the story. Is it necessary? In my mind, yes. First impressions of the house, etc. will be something you can look forward to in the next chapter. (Which will be longer than this chapter, I swear.)

All houses tell stories. They’re written in its worn floorboards, the stairs that creak, the color choices, the woodwork, and sometimes it’s even wedged into the walls.

It’s my job to bring them back to life.

To say that I was surprised to have been contacted by a solicitor would be an understatement of gross proportions and perhaps a more accurate word to describe my reaction was this: intrigued. How else should one feel when they’re sent a written proposal to take over the restoration of a family’s estate in the north of England? However, it wasn’t the proposal itself that sparked my interest in the project but a picture that he had also enclosed which showed an impressive four story structure that was such a mix of architectural styles that I didn’t know _what_ to call it exactly. Gothic might be a start, but there were elements of Anglo-Saxon, Elizabethan, and even tiny hints of Victorian architecture blended in with the more “recent” architecture styles being quite faint.

It took me less than three hours to make up my mind and four more to call back the family’s solicitor to tell him that I would take on the restoration under the condition that I be allowed to see the house in its current state to better assess the scale of the project. After all, if I’ve learned anything within my budding yet hectic career it’s this: never take on a project sight unseen. Sometimes the houses with lovely facades are absolute nightmares.

“If you agree,” the solicitor warned me. “They’ll want you to begin immediately. To pick up where the last crew left off. Unfortunately when the last contractor left, they quit the project. We’re working on reassembling a crew now.”

I opened my mouth to ask why on earth they needed to rebuild an entire team and thought better of it. _Even if you don’t take on this estate as your next project, you still get to explore the countryside and maybe you’ll even find something in a pawn shop or an estate sale that will make the trip worth it_ , I reminded myself. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I replied, fumbling for the letter. “That is, _if_ I agree to take on… Allerdale Hall.”

“Good,” he said—and perhaps it was just me hearing things but he sounded a bit surprised. “When should we expect you?”

“It depends on how long it takes to set up lodging, renting a car, and so forth,” I admitted.

“We would be more than-“ he began.

“I really don’t mean to be rude,” I said quickly, cutting him off. “But I really will insist on driving myself although your help with recommendations for where to stay would be greatly appreciated; as would some guidance about the visa I’m undoubtedly going to need.”

“Ah, of course,” he replied, clearing his throat. “You’ll have what you need in your inbox by tomorrow morning.”

The sound of keys could be heard faintly through my phone and I pushed myself back from my desk, my mouth pressed into a thin line. As excited as I was by the prospect of taking on a project I’d only dreamed—and joked—about before, he seemed stressed and almost eager to hear my reply. I wasn’t used to this almost instantaneous response and it was setting me on edge.

“Miss Pearce?” he asked, sounding a tad nervous.

“Yes?” I replied, brought out of my daze.

“Oh! Just making sure you were still there. You never know. Anyway, as I was saying, I’ll send you the relevant information and I look forward to showing you the estate.”

“It sounds like a plan, Mr. Caldwell.”

 

With the usual pleasantries then exchanged, I hung up the phone and picked up the photograph of Allerdale Hall that laid half hidden behind Mr. Caldwell’s letter and reclined in my chair. Was I really going to travel across the Atlantic for a project that I was only half sure I wanted to take on?

I ran my fingers along the roof line of Allerdale Hall in the photo and smiled to myself. Yes, that was exactly what I intended to do.


	3. A Desolate Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things resume, a detour away from the movie begins.

I'm not proud to admit that I got lost in the English countryside. In other circumstances it might've been a fun opportunity to hunt for antiques, but after roughly eleven hours in the air and six hours in my rental car I was more than ready to pick up the keys to my cottage and call it a day. Unfortunately that wasn't the plan. With nothing but the directions given to me by Mr. Caldwell and cautious faith in the car's GPS I turned away from civilization and journeyed farther into the rolling countryside.

Allerdale Hall towered before me as I came up its winding drive, stopping briefly to take in its open, rusted gates. On either side the iron fence fell away after a few sections, as if never completed. I pressed my lips together in agitation; securing the house--and my work--was going to be a trial without a locked gate. "You haven't agreed to take on the project yet," I reminded myself as I ran a hand up and down the brick columns that held the arch aloft. Instead I turned my gaze towards the house, a hulking monstrosity with elegant bones. A minimalist painting come to life as it stood out bleakly against the surrounding grounds--reddish brown soil being the predominant theme.

Parked in front of the house itself was a car that looked equally as out of place as mine, a black Jaguar sedan that would've been far more at home in the city. I could make out the figure of a man standing next to it, his body turned towards the drive. I waved once in an exaggerated manner before climbing back into my car and making my way up to the house. In truth, "house" was an understatement. Houses as I'd come to know them were smaller, more intimate; but this... this _hall_ was something else entirely. Enormous, daunting, a patchwork of new and old. But more importantly, it was fascinating. A project that I was itching to take on.

"Miss Pearce, I presume," Mr. Caldwell said, holding out a hand which I shook warmly.

"That would be me," I confirmed, my gaze drifting upwards to hungrily drink in the details of the door frame and the doors themselves--massive, almost medieval things. "This- this is certainly something, isn't it?"

A brief look of surprise flitted across his face before being replaced with a stoic expression. "It certainly is that." He paused and seemed to almost hesitate before turning towards the doors, a key in hand. "We only have an hour or so of light left--the house has yet to be wired for electricity, you see--but you said you wanted to see inside, did you not?"

"No time like the present," I replied with a smile.

"Then follow me," He said as he pushed the doors open.

I still don't know what I was expecting to see inside. Honestly, I think I was bracing for it. It wouldn't be the first horror story I'd seen but one always hopes for the best. From the pictures I was sent I already knew that it was three stories tall and had two towers to its credit but you can only learn so much from an external look. Inside... inside was a different story. As expected, there were three floors--each with their own landing--with broken rails and stairs I was certainly not going to try until I had my wits about me. The wallpaper clung to the wall in strips, some of it rotted, some of it missing entirely. Against the far wall a massive fireplace drew the eye, covered as it was in grime--most of which was likely soot. Chunks of the walls were missing entirely, exposing the wood within like skeletal ribs.

Mr. Caldwell trailed me silently as I wandered into the drawing room, the library, and finally the kitchen. "An elevator?" I asked, reaching a hand out towards the metal frame. "That's a bit of a surprise."

"Ah, yes. It's been around since-" he paused, flipping through the stack of papers that he carried with him. "The late eighteen hundreds. Doesn't work anymore, of course. But there are the stairs."

"I'm not sure I'd trust the stairs in their current state," I replied, my eyebrow raised slightly. "But, that can be fixed."

"Does that mean you'll take the project?" He asked, hope coloring his voice.

"Ask me in the morning," I replied, holding up a hand as he looked like he was about to argue. "I've been traveling for nearly eighteen hours now and I'm not one to make promises when I'm this tired." I frowned at the kitchen tiles, tentatively rubbing a hand against the dark red substance. "Is this... clay?"

"Ah! Yes, yes it is," Mr. Caldwell replied, looking slightly flustered.

"It looks a bit like blood, don't you think?" I asked, holding up a dark red finger. "Still," I sighed, rubbing it against my jeans. "Until the morning. I'll give you my official decision then."

"Until then, Miss Pearce," Mr. Caldwell replied as he led me out of the house, the floorboards above creaking in what could've been the wind.


	4. Dive On In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A project accepted. Is it just an old estate? Are her eyes playing tricks on her? (We'll go farther into the house next time, I promise.)

I imagine everyone has their own method for starting a renovation project. Some might start work on the house immediately, others might look to similar homes nearby, but I've always been partial to starting with a large stack of books and a more tentative walk through of the house. Still sore and suffering from jet lag that not even coffee could cure, I packed the car for "expeditions and expletives". In short: a first aid box, gloves, a hammer, a sketchbook, a flashlight, a headlamp, and assorted other necessities--such as food. But most importantly, the keys for Allerdale Hall. Yes, keys. Plural. Bulky, noisy, and according to Mr. Caldwell, my only option if I wanted to be able to explore the house without having to ring him for the sake of getting a few of the doors open. As he'd left for London shortly after giving me the keys that morning, well, it would've been problematic for both of us.

The road to the estate was no easier than it had been on the previous day and I still couldn't believe how empty the surrounding area was. If I got into trouble, I'd be completely on my own--at least until someone decided to come looking for me. The thought sent a shudder down my spine.

"Delia, you'll be fine. This isn't a movie and there aren't any serial killers lurking in shadows," I chided myself as I pulled up the drive. "Just don't break or sprain any limbs." I reminded myself as I pulled out the keys, fiddling with them until they produced the ornate, iron key that opened the front doors. "Or fall through anything." I muttered, sliding the key into place before the lock gave with a sharp click that seemed to reverberate through the house.

The foyer continued to take my breath away and I found myself craning my neck to look at the landings on the upper floors. The solicitor had promised me that the building and lower floors had been reinforced before I was brought in but I was skeptical about the quality of work--although eternally grateful that they had repaired the roof. Still, the house creaked and groaned as all old houses do. But unlike past projects, the creaks and groans seemed to travel through the hallways which was made infinitely creepier by the fact that I was there alone. Undeterred, I slung my work bag over my shoulder and set to work cataloging the rooms.

Remarkably, time was the main cause of the house's deterioration. Rot was evident enough and by no means easy to fix, but also not unexpected for an old house in such a climate. The clay was another matter entirely, it leaked slowly through the gaps in the walls, the floorboards were streaked with it--likely due to the crews that had come before me. Mr. Caldwell told me that it used to be much worse, but as the house was no longer sinking the flow had almost ceased entirely. That didn't make it look any less like blood though. As if bodies had been dragged through the foyer in many different directions. Tentatively I tested the stairs which creaked underneath my boots but otherwise held. Letting out a relieved sigh, I pressed on.

There was a bedroom off to the left of the landing, past a hallway with spiked arches--and interesting architectural choice, to be sure--with windows fogged with grime. Although midday was approaching the light struggled to penetrate into the room despite the lack of curtains. Unfurnished as the room was, it felt bleak. As I looked out onto the drive, I tried to imagine the type of person that must've stayed in this room- and that was when I heard it, a creaking groan outside the open bedroom doors. The unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Immediately I felt myself go pale and the internal debate began did I investigate or did I hope they went away? "I'm going to regret this," I whispered as I went for the doors. Curiosity is a disease in its own right. It wiggles its way in and you find yourself doing things that you _know_ are dangerous or at the very least, stupid. But I needed to know if someone was squatting at the house. I snapped my head towards the noise as it came again, this time from the staircase leading towards the third floor. The groan of wooden floorboards causing my arms to break out in goosebumps. As quick as I dared, I stepped towards the staircase and glanced upwards, sure that I'd see someone and from the corner of my eye, I saw a figure for what felt like a fraction of a second.

"Hey!" I shouted, my own footsteps now pounding on the staircase as I chased after them. "You can't be-" A door somewhere on the third floor clicked shut. "In here." I finished weakly, following the noise although I wanted nothing else than to turn around, get back in my car, and drive back to the village.

Batting away cobwebs and moths that seemed just as startled to see me as I was to see them, I came to the door I swear I'd heard shut. Rubbing my hands against my jeans I tentatively closed my hand around the knob and turned it. The door swung open easily, almost eagerly at my touch, revealing a room unsurprisingly coated in dust. But unlike the other rooms that I'd been in, this one looked... abandoned. Various mechanical parts were littered throughout the room, broken up by journals, papers faded by the hands of time, and rather eerily, a few doll heads as well. A small heater was tucked up against a desk on the far wall of the room and while my hands wanted to roam the tables, I stopped myself. It felt as if I was invading someone's sanctuary and moreover, my mystery intruder was undoubtedly not in the room.


	5. More Research Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more exploration (and an unfortunately short chapter).

The damage on the third floor was by far the worst. A mural so faded by time that I wondered if it could even be repaired, walls on which the plaster had almost entirely fallen away, and the moths. Oh, the moths. I had been prepared for spiders and rodents but moths were an interesting, unwelcome development.

They fluttered in agitation as I moved down the hallway nearest the elevator shaft--which I refused to look down--beating against my skin as if trying to protect something. As I stepped towards the door at the end of the corridor, the fluttering of their wings seemed to still and after exhaling slowly, I tried the door. "Locked," I announced aloud in surprise, my hands immediately going for the ring of keys I'd been given. One after another I tried them all but none would turn the lock. I took a step back and examined the door, kneeling down to examine the lock. Through it, I could see into the room beyond. Glass domes and cases sat on top of bookshelves, the room itself a study in grey, the color leached away. But one object in particular caught my eye, a writing desk.

I'd always loved them. Elegant, old fashioned, but completely practical as well. It wasn't uncommon for me to spend time at historical estates and museums, fawning over their collection of writing desks.

Without a way into the room at the time short of slamming myself into the door and almost undoubtedly ruining the door frame I retreated back to the landing and stood as close as I dared to the broken railing. It was, undoubtedly, a Project. Walls to repair, woodwork done to match the parts that were broken or rotted, wallpaper and murals to recreate, furniture to hunt down--although I'd heard that some of the family's heirlooms had survived, and the sheer scale of it was both daunting and exhilarating.

I continued the rest of my tour and thankfully, the only creaking I heard was caused by my steps but as for the lower levels of the estate, well, I'd save them for a later date. After the noises on the third floor, I was in no hurry to go below the ground floor and definitely not while I was alone in the house. "Caution prevents injuries," I muttered to myself as I looked down the stairwell in the kitchen. It was just too dangerous. Steps could be missing, the likelihood of damp stone was high, and then there was the matter of the crimson colored clay that seemed more prevalent towards the stairwell. It didn't matter that supposedly the other crew had gone down there and done work to the foundation of the house; I wasn't going to take chances.

When hunger began to gnaw at me again, I bid the elegant, decrepit estate goodbye and headed back towards town.


	6. Something Less Than a Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into town she goes, what secrets will be revealed? No one knows. More or less, her curiosity is peaked and a strange dream occurs.  
> (Short chapter, I know. But I'm getting back into the groove of things. More to come!)

Jet lag is a terrible thing. Still dealing with its effects and the enormity of the project before me, I decided that it would be in my best interest to... not cook. Instead I decided to leave myself to the mercy of the local pub and the recommendations of my server who seemed a little taken aback by--if I had to guess--my American accent.

"We don't get many of you through here," he said with a grunt as he set my plate down.

"Americans?" I asked, mildly curious.

"Americans," he replied, confirming my line of thought. Before walking away to deal with a group of men who were hailing him from a table tucked away in a corner he added rather quietly, "And certainly not one poking around that bloody estate."

I gaped at his back for a moment, wanting to ask him what he meant by that last part and all too sure that I hadn't been meant to hear it. Of _course_ the locals would know about the estate. How could they not? I picked at my food as I began to plan out the following day. There was research to immerse myself in, a local historian to hunt up--surely one existed, and I felt another trip to the estate itself was in order. I had a rough idea of where I wanted to start working--the third floor--and where I wanted to end--the first floor with its massive foyer--but I wanted to get a look at the third floor again. Partially to see if I could open the locked door but also because I wanted to make sure that I hadn't heard someone else in the house.

I was mostly convinced that it had just been the wind--after all, just because the house was now considered structurally sound did not mean that it didn't still creak and groan as old homes often did--but a small, nagging voice in the back of my head suggested that it _could_ be something else, even if I didn't want to entertain the possibility. I paled at the thought. An actual person would be easier to handle and while I didn't consider myself particularly prone to believing in the supernatural, being in the north of England certainly set the atmosphere for superstition at a minimum.

When it came time to pay, my server was no where to be seen, much to my dismay and the bartender wouldn't speak to me once I mentioned Allerdale Hall. He did, however, wear a very interesting expression. While I was no expert, I'd say it was halfway between horror and disbelief. Clearly there was something I was missing about the history of the estate. Unless it was simply a case of the townsfolk disliking the family. Possible, but that wasn't entirely the impression that I had gotten from my brief encounter at the pub. Regardless, it had peaked my interest.

My dreams were terrible that night. I was running from something within Allerdale Hall, something that caused the floorboards behind me to creak and groan. Rhythmic, heavy steps. I was running down the second floor staircase, trying desperately to reach the massive front doors when something grabbed me.


End file.
